The afternoon sun draped gold over the front garden, warming the stone path and the gentle rise of planted rows. Lyra knelt near a patch of tomatoes, basket at her side, fingers moving easily through the green stems as she plucked the ripest fruit.

A little further down, Hassian was shirtless in the carrot patch, knee-deep in earth, turning soil with practiced ease. Dirt clung to the backs of his arms and streaked along his ribs where he’d wiped his hands. Sweat glistened at the nape of his neck.

Lyra tried not to stare. She failed.

Kaja circled a cluster of pumpkins like she meant to adopt one, tail wagging in proud little bursts. Every so often she’d give a sharp buff and glance back, as if to say, Look at this fat one, Mom. Tau, by contrast, was sprawled beneath the apple tree—dignified, colossal, a puddle of noble plumehound.

Lyra reached for another tomato, then froze. Boots, steady on stone.

She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, just as Subira came into view.

“Afternoon,” Subira greeted, offering a polite nod.

Hassian glanced over his shoulder, brow ticking down. “You always come right before dinner,” he said evenly, setting aside the spade. “That intentional?”

Subira’s smile was faint, unreadable. “Coincidence. I promise.”

He rose, brushing his palms over his pants, then started toward the work area. “I’ll make myself scarce,” he murmured to Lyra as he passed, pausing just long enough to add, “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

She nodded. Kaja bounded after him, the loyal shadow, while Tau remained in his shade—still enormous, still unbothered.

Only once Hassian was a good distance off did Subira turn fully to Lyra. “I came to ask a favor.”

Lyra’s fingers stilled on the basket handle. “All right…”

“There’s been some movement around the old lighthouse in Bahari Bay. Nothing confirmed, just whispers. We’d like a pair of eyes on it—discreet ones. Yours. Do you know the place?”

“Yeah. I went there ages ago, with a friend. Creepy then. Felt abandoned but… not empty.”

Subira’s slight nod said that was the answer she’d expected. “I’d like you to take a look. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be ideal.”

Lyra hesitated. “You think someone’s watching it?”

“I think someone’s using it. Which means there’s a chance someone will be watching you.”

“Charming,” Lyra muttered. “Guess it’s my turn again.”

“I only ask because I trust your instincts,” Subira said. “You don’t need to report back until you’re ready. Just… see what your gut says.”

Lyra’s gaze drifted toward the river, where Hassian rinsed his arms, back to them, Tau now sitting sentry nearby.

“All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

Subira inclined her head. “I do appreciate your assistance.” And then she was gone, her steps fading into the path.

Lyra let out a long breath. The garden rustled with breeze. Somewhere distant, Kaja gave a triumphant bark—probably at a stick she’d conquered.

Lyra picked up her basket again, brushing her thumb over the ripest tomato. “So much for a quiet week,” she murmured.

Dinner at Dusk

The kitchen smelled of cracked pepper and mustard, toasted buns and something faintly sweet. Bean burgers sizzled in the pan while the oven hissed quietly with flowtato fries. Sunlight slanted through the curtains, striping the counter in lazy gold.

Hassian leaned against the far counter, arms crossed, watching her with that familiar mix of hunger and admiration. Mostly hunger. The man loved this meal.

When she plated the food and set it down, he didn’t wait for prompting. He was already pulling out his chair, hand stealing the first fry.

As he bit into it, he shot her a sidelong glance. “So… did Subira have a more reasonable request this time, or am I dark on this one?”

Lyra slid into the seat beside him, smirking as she grabbed a burger. “I’m not doing dark. Not from you, anyway.”

He raised a brow.

She picked at a fry. “The Order thinks the old lighthouse out in Bahari might be in use again—for something shady. Subira wants me to check it out. Quietly.”

Hassian paused mid-bite. “The lighthouse?” He chewed, swallowed. “I was in that place once. Not somewhere you stumble into twice.”

“We checked it out too—me and Saraya. No way we were passing up a creepy abandoned lighthouse. Practically begged us to come get haunted.”

He let out a breath through his nose, slow and measured. “And you said yes.”

“I said yes,” she confirmed, casual. “I don’t think it’ll harm anyone for me to look. If something’s there, I’ll see it.”

Hassian didn’t answer immediately. He sat back, chewing slow, eyes on his plate but clearly elsewhere. At last he wiped his mouth, then reached across the table and took her hand.

“You take Kaja and Tau,” he said, voice low and firm. “I’ll be nearby, watching—but unseen. You’ve got thirty minutes. Then I come in. If I see movement, anything suspicious… I come in.”

Lyra smiled, squeezed his hand. His caution wasn’t a leash—it was devotion, disguised as strategy.

“Deal.”
Then, with a wicked glint: “You’re so damn hot when you give orders, daddy.”

Hassian didn’t blink. He’d been ready.

“Don’t make me put you over my knee and spank you.”

Lyra’s grin turned sultry, slow. “Yessss,” she purred, drawn-out, unrepentant.

He popped another fry into his mouth like he hadn’t just threatened to derail her entire evening.

Shadows on the Bay

They set out after breakfast. The Bahari sky was pale blue, clouds drifting like scraps of silk. The day felt quiet on purpose—like the forest was holding its breath.

There was nothing unusual about two hunters walking the Bay paths, bows on their backs, hounds at their heels. To any watcher, they were routine. Ordinary. Together, maybe less so. But they didn’t stand out.

Kaja loped ahead, ears perked, tail curling in playful alertness. Tau paced steady at Lyra’s side. Every so often Hassian’s hand brushed hers, wordless check-ins in each touch.

At the cliff path, the lighthouse rose pale against the horizon. Hassian scanned the trees, then pointed at a sturdy blackwood just off the trail.

“That one,” he said simply.

She nodded.

He climbed with practiced grace, muscle flexing beneath his shirt—why did he look good even climbing trees—until he vanished into the crook of the branches, high enough to see everything.
He looked down, hand resting on the bow slung across his back.
“I’ve got you.”

She nodded, tightened her satchel strap, and gave a low whistle to the hounds. Kaja trotted ahead, tail high. Tau stayed close.

The lighthouse loomed like a forgotten bone, pale stone against the sky. Lyra slipped inside with her breath held and her mental timer ticking.

The place was exactly as she remembered: dust-muted floors, broken stairs that groaned if you so much as looked at them. She moved quickly, sweeping each level. Just recon. Just a look.

Halfway down, something caught her eye. A patch of sunlight. A sealed envelope. Bright white, sharp ink.

It didn’t belong. Not in a place that reeked of dust and mildew. Not with edges that crisp.

Her stomach gave a lurch. She crouched, scanned the room once more, then tucked the envelope into her satchel without opening it. One last sweep, then she headed out.

At exactly thirty minutes, she stepped into the clearing with both plumehounds at her side.

She looked up. Hassian was shadowed in branches, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing that mattered.
And for a moment—wind in her hair, secrets in her satchel—she believed it.

The Letter

Killima Village glowed with the golden hush of afternoon. Lyra touched Hassian’s hand briefly before they parted—him to the garden, her to duty. His look said it all: Be safe. Be quick. Come back.

The inn was lively, though not crowded. Subira sat near the hearth, Ashura at her side. Their conversation broke as Lyra approached.

Ashura smiled first. “There she is—always walking like she knows the land belongs to her.”

Lyra chuckled, warmed as always by him. “Always good to see you, Ashura.”

He winked. “And you, Lyra.”

Subira rose smoothly. “Let’s speak upstairs.”

Inside her room, Lyra pulled the envelope from her satchel and held it out. “The place looked unchanged. Nothing new—except this. Ink’s fresh. Too fresh.”

Subira turned it over in her hand but didn’t open it.

“I didn’t read it,” Lyra added. “Could be anything. I’d rather keep it that way.”

For once, Subira didn’t move with sharp efficiency. She froze. Confusion flickered first, then something deeper. Haunted. Afraid.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said quickly, voice tight. “I’m not well.”

She all but ushered Lyra out.

The door clicked shut. Lyra blinked. Weird. Very weird. But there was nothing more she could do—except keep her other promise.

Jel’s Shop

The bell above Jel’s door chimed its cheerful note. The mood inside matched—Jel practically vibrating with delight.

“You’re here!” he gasped, tugging a half-covered mannequin forward. “Prototype’s ready. I just need final measurements. Go—try it on!”

Lyra laughed, shaking her head at his excitement. “Yes, Commander,” she teased, ducking into the dressing room.

The fabric slid cool through her fingers—light, dreamlike. She pulled the dress over her head, adjusted it, then turned toward the mirror.
She stared.

“This is really happening,” she whispered.

The dress fit almost perfectly, as if it had been waiting for her. As if he had, too.

Her mind tumbled through all the pieces of their story: the meals she’d carried him when he barely spoke, the way she watched him slip into the woods, the ghosts she hadn’t understood yet. Every star she’d wished on. Every hope whispered into Tau’s fur. All of it had led here. To him. To forever.

She could still hear herself on that first day, turning to her friends with conviction: Someday, he’s going to be my man.
And now—he was.

From the other side of the door, Jel’s muffled voice floated in. “You okay in there?”

Lyra blinked back the shimmer in her eyes. “Perfect,” she called, steady. “It’s perfect.”